


The Third Time

by witling



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witling/pseuds/witling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We need to get back to the city, we need a cab. And a cab won't take you if you're covered in blood."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Third Time

**Author's Note:**

> After I finished this, I read Rageprufrock's [excellent untitled Arthur/Eames fic](http://rageprufrock.dreamwidth.org/42446.html), which also involves a bar called Gilt. Strange coincidence. Hers is in NYC, mine's in Chicago. They both exist. Anyway, can't recommend her story highly enough. And definitely also read Helenish's story, [Practice Makes Perfect](http://helenish.livejournal.com/164280.html), which riffs on Pru's, and which is also extremely excellent and hot and hilarious. Basically, cheers to both those ladies for such great stories, and wow, what is it about Arthur and Eames that brings out the Gilt in us all?

The first time Arthur succumbed to Eames's dubious charms--except it wasn't succumbing, it was a conscious leap from his narrow bridge of sanity into the wine-dark seas of, well, Eames--the first time was about six weeks after the Fischer job.

Arthur was in Chicago, drifting through the lives of some old friends, walking the Mile, drinking late cocktails at the Green Mill, and thinking about an apartment. He had money. He liked snow and architecture. When he was stateside he often ended up in Chicago, and he was thinking maybe an apartment wouldn't be a bad investment, and examining his reflection in the Bean, when he noticed someone walking up behind him. The Bean made the other man wavery, evasive, elongated--but even before he turned around he knew who it was.

"Hello," said Eames, smiling. He was wearing something that looked like a camel hair coat, the collar turned up and a thick scarf stuffed inside. His lips were chapped and his cheeks were pink. "There's a coincidence."

Arthur inclined his head coolly, but secretly he was startled and pleased. Eames, of course, knew it.

"I'm dying for a decent dish of marrow," he said. "You know anywhere that serves it?"

They went to Gilt. Eames had marrow, Arthur had mussels.

"You've got a flat?" Eames asked, not subtly at all, as he picked up the bill.

"It's not mine. It's temporary." He'd got it off Craigslist; it belonged to professor at the Art Institute, and was full of giant photographs of vaginas. The thought made him waver, momentarily--he'd accepted where this was heading, he was loose enough after half a bottle of wine to be looking forward to it, even, but those photos... "It's not mine." Eames gave him a double look.

When they were tangled up together on the big leather couch, necking furiously in the faint, eternal light of the city night sky, Eames reached out to drop his watch on the end table and caught sight of one of the pictures--a giant vulva, glistening like a cavern. "Jesus Christ."

"It's not mine," Arthur said again, sliding his hand up beneath Eames's shirt, feeling his warm skin, the solid muscle and wiry hair and the soft perturbation of his nipple. "I told you."

"You're an odd kitten, Arthur."

"Not. Mine."

"I like odd." He sank back down, his full weight shoving Arthur into the leather with a creak, pressing the breath out of him.

 

The second time was two months after that. Arthur was working again, running experimental extractions with a new partner. Cobb was a father now, Cobb was out. The new guy was named Mitford--or at least, he said that was his name. From what Arthur had dug up, he'd only existed as Mitford for about eleven months; he'd emerged fully-formed from the ether, trailing cloudy wisps of ex-special-forces. Mitford had a square head and a square jaw and eyes carved out of ice, but he was scary smart and he never, ever fucked up.

The experiments weren't going so well, through no fault of Mitford or Arthur. They were testing a new compound, something Mitford's chemist had churned up, claiming it enhanced the dream, made a superman out of the conscious dreamer. It did that, to a point. Mainly it transformed Mitford into a monstrous roaring death machine, who kept turning on Arthur and beating him into tomato paste without warning. Innate human aggression, or something.

The beating on this day was pretty brutal, even by Arthur's new standards. He'd been throttled, impaled, and bludgeoned more times in his three weeks with Mitford than in his whole prior career. He was getting used to it, almost. But this particular mix amped everything up to eleven—his own panic and pain responses as well as Mitford's crazy caveman rage—and when they woke up on their sweat-soaked cots in the basement shop, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing for almost a minute.

Not for the first time, Arthur wondered why he still did this kind of thing.

"Sorry," Mitford said at last, and he really did sound sorry. Arthur swung his legs out of the cot, gave it a second, then stood up. It was a relief to know his legs would hold him.

"It's okay." He reached for his jacket. "I'm out. For the night."

Mitford, still disconnecting his line, nodded. He looked troubled. The chemist, Arthur knew, would be hearing about this.

They were in Amsterdam, home of all experimental chemists. Arthur's room was at the Eden. He walked along the Leidsekade with his hands in his pockets, his chin sunk to his chest. It was dusk. The river smelled dirty and stale. He was thinking of where to go next, whether he should find Yusuf and try something different for a while, maybe somewhere sunny.

In the lobby of the hotel, someone fell in beside him, too close. He turned--and it was Eames in a dark shirt and dark trousers, his hair slicked back, tan and unshaven and disreputable.

"Hello," he said, and then his smile dropped. "You look terrible."

"Mr. Eames." For some reason, Arthur felt embarrassed. It made him formal. "To...to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Is it a pleasure?" Eames was studying him, clicking away, figuring out what Arthur had been up to, working odd jobs, picking the wrong people to work them with. Arthur felt himself bristle, draw up--then took a breath and tried to relax. He smiled, knowing it was artificial but going for the appearance, at least.

"Sure." They were standing by the hotel restaurant. He half-turned, raising his eyebrows. "Have you--?"

"I'm starving," said Eames, companionably enough. Whatever he was thinking, he was willing to let it go. And that, Arthur remembered, was one of the things he liked about Eames.

 

After dinner they went up to Arthur's room and had a pleasant-enough drink in the armchairs by the window, except Arthur was exhausted and he could feel his eyelids dropping, his mind drifting. It was embarrassing, especially when he reflected that Eames had probably made the trip to Amsterdam especially on his behalf, an international booty call or maybe whatever passed for a mad romantic gesture in his mind. The latter option didn't bear considering, but whatever, Eames was sitting across from him holding a half-glass of cognac that he didn't really seem to want, watching with a tolerant smile while Arthur pulled his head up and blinked, pretending he hadn't been fading.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said. "I've been working late."

Eames dipped his head, a gentleman's nod. "I can go."

"No." Arthur paused, realizing he honestly didn't have much to offer; this was not going to be a night of sweaty biting under a giant vulva shot. "I can meet you tomorrow. If you're going to be here." It came out sounding pathetic, high-schoolish. He felt himself flush.

Eames was changeable--there were times when Arthur glanced over at him and thought he looked ten years younger than he was. Usually when he was pissed off about something, or worried. Other times, when he was complacent, he looked older, heavier, appealingly oily. It was unsettling. At the moment, he was watching Arthur with a kind of highly focused fondness. As if he were cataloging this moment for addition to some inner dossier. The moment of Arthur being too tired for sex, and embarrassed about it.

Feeling stripped, Arthur looked back into his glass and cleared his throat. Eames crossed his legs.

"I'm fairly knackered myself," he said. "Mind if I stay?"

Arthur had a quick flash of that--Eames spending the night, brushing his teeth with the spare hotel toothbrush, reading the back of Arthur's paperback copy of _Ways of Seeing_ while Arthur brushed his teeth, being there in the bed when Arthur came out of the bathroom in his boxer briefs and T-shirt, the two of them lying down together like a married couple and clicking out the light to, what, spoon? Without meaning to, he let out a single short bark of laughter. Eames raised his eyebrows.

"Sorry," Arthur said. He set his glass down on the table. "I think I'm tireder than I thought."

"Reason is," Eames went on, as if Arthur hadn't said anything, "I'm on a short layover and I didn't bother to get a room. And there's this conference in town."

"What conference," Arthur said flatly.

"International stopcock menders' association."

"Is that a dig?"

"They've got all the decent rooms. I can't stay at a Sheraton. I'm a rich man now, my slumming days are over."

Arthur closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then shrugged. "Sure. Whatever." Part of him was frantic at the idea, another part of him was too tired to care. Eames in his bed, all night. What the hell would that be like? Weird. "What time's your flight?"

"Early." Eames looked around, spotted the television remote, and got up to retrieve it. "Don't mind me, I'll just watch a little telly to wind down."

"Fine." Feeling strangely outmaneuvered, Arthur got up and went into the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror while he brushed his teeth. International stopcock menders' association. His eyes were narrow and slitted the way they always were when he was exhausted. He looked like he'd been punched in the face. He hated that he had such a visible tell.

He pulled off his tie and vest, unbuttoned his shirt, and, after a moment of internal struggle, rolled his die. Three. Outside the door, the television was playing softly. He folded his vest over his arm and went out.

Eames, watching television in his armchair, didn't look up while Arthur hung up his clothes, tossing his shirt into the hotel dry cleaning bag. The lights were all out now and the television cast a flickering blue glow over Eames's face. He looked young again, earnestly interested in the Dutch-language news report. Arthur tried to remember if Dutch was one of Eames's languages. Probably not.

Feeling stupidly naked, nerdish and exposed, he got into bed and rolled onto his side, facing away from Eames. He couldn't remember why he'd agreed to this. Maybe Eames would have second thoughts too, just get up and go and spare both of them the ridiculousness of whatever this was supposed to be. Or maybe Eames was planning on trying for sex in a little while, when Arthur's resistance was lowered.

 _Good fucking luck_ , Arthur thought, feeling deep weariness start to spread through his body.

He only woke up because it was so foreign, feeling another body in bed beside him--it sparked a safety in his brain and made him flip over like a startled cat. There was a little light, just enough to see Eames's broad bare back and tattooed shoulder. Arthur hadn't spent a lot of time examining those tattoos, but he knew them. They were terrible. He relaxed, let his head fall back onto the pillow, and felt his eyelids start to lower. The clock on the night table read 2:30. Eames had left the bathroom light on and the door cracked--probably exactly because he knew Arthur would wake up like this.

Sometime later, he woke up again with Eames's arm around him, Eames's leg alongside his, Eames's cheek on his shoulder. Not quite spooning, but close. Arthur lay there, fighting it and then not fighting it. Thinking: fuck it. He turned his face to Eames's and breathed in. Eames smelled good.

Arthur's arm was dead, so he rescued it from beneath his body and shoved Eames over, rolling with him so he could lie behind. He felt Eames wake up, momentarily, and waited for a comment about spooning. None came. He fell asleep with his forehead against Eames's warm back, his arm tingling painfully as it came back to life.

 

The next morning Eames slipped out of bed first, and closed the bathroom door behind him. Arthur pretended to sleep while the shower ran. It was just past six when Eames came out, leaned over the bed, and kissed the side of Arthur's head. Arthur kept his eyes closed, and after a moment, Eames left.

After Chicago, Arthur had cycled through a series of emotions. He'd been mildly surprised that Eames was actually gay, or gay enough, to follow up on all his ridiculous flirtation; more serious surprise that Eames had actually followed up with Arthur, of all people; satisfaction that things had gone okay, no major fuck-ups; and something that he defined as curiosity over whether Eames might turn up again. After Amsterdam, Arthur didn't cycle through anything. Amsterdam was just embarrassing.

For several days after Eames left, Arthur let Moffitt pummel him to cat food in the dreams. When Moffitt wanted to stop, he insisted they keep going. Every night when they quit he walked quickly home along the river, his head sunk low and his shoulders up, afraid someone was going to fall in step beside him. No one did.

 

 

The third time Arthur succumbed to Eames was, in retrospect, miraculous. For several reasons.

First, Arthur had been taking some pains to make sure Eames didn't drop in on him again. Not anytime soon, at least. Not until the weirdness and awkwardness of four-a.m. spooning had subsided and could safely be considered a non-thing, something that had never happened. He'd been working steadily, expanding his network of professional connections, keeping careful track of his many alter egos and making sure he didn't leave behind anything that could be considered an invitation. No open doors, no hints. If Eames really wanted to find him, he could. But Arthur's porch light was off, figuratively. And for four months, Eames took the hint.

Second, Arthur was doing his flip-flop thing again, the one he'd done since junior high, the one he'd never been able to stop doing. He liked women. More importantly, he liked how he felt with women. Normal, simple, stable. So every so often he told himself to cut this shit out, straighten up and fly right, and be a goddamn heterosexual. He wasn't a kid anymore. Nineteen year-olds could do stupid shit at the command of their gonads. Twenty-seven year-olds with high six-figure bank accounts had to think more long-term.

So when he took the job running point for Caldwell, he was in a thing with a woman named Eden. She was a ceramicist from Texas, with strong square hands and white teeth, and shoulders that made him crazy. Father an oncologist, mother a patents lawyer, a big family house in Austin and a littler place in Marfa, combined family income close to two million, summa cum laude from Rutgers and MFA from RISD. Younger sister, Lauren; older brother Michael, deceased. A single DUI in college, lesson learned.

They met at the Art Institute in Chicago, studying the cases of ancient Mesoamerican figurines. She asked for his number, and the next day when she called, he ran her background. Then they went on a date.

The Caldwell job was a milk run, just teasing a few key names and numbers out of a senior accountant at a major pharmaceutical company. Standard corporate knowledge mining, zero risk, and it was in New York, where Eden had friends and work and the keys to a friend's Greenwich Village tax shelter. Without telling her exactly what he had to do--his story so far had been corporate investment consulting--Arthur suggested they take a week in the city. The flight was easy, and they necked a little in the back of the car from the airport.

The next morning Arthur took the A train out to Rockaway Beach. When they left JFK the car was almost empty, and as they rattled over the long low bridge across the bay, he felt his eyelids start to fall, lulled by the flat grey water. Then the car jolted, and someone sat down on the bench seat next to his. He looked over. It was Eames.

"Hello." Eames was unwrapping a stick of gum, popping it into his mouth. He'd put on a few pounds, and he was wearing a shirt with a wrinkled collar and a small floral pattern, under a brown suit jacket. He chewed and smiled. "There's a coincidence."

Arthur took a moment to compose himself. "You're on this job?"

"Hope so. Or else I'm taking a long train ride to look at some birds."

"That wasn't in the briefing."

Eames shrugged. "Change of plans. What can you do?"

Arthur said nothing. He felt strangely hostile. It was because he was surprised, he told himself. He hated surprises.

Eames looked out the window. After a minute or so he said, "You've been busy."

"I've been working."

"Doesn't hurt to take a break now and then, though."

"This is a break." Arthur tilted his head in the direction the train was headed. "Why are you even here? This is small-time."

"I might ask the same of you." Eames smiled charmingly, and Arthur closed his mouth and sat back. He wasn't going to say, _I'm doing it because it's the kind of job I can take while my girlfriend's visiting PS1._ He stared out the dirty train window and watched from the corner of his eye while Eames folded his gum wrapper into a square, unfolded it, folded it again, all with a pleasant nonchalant look on his face. Finally they were at Beach and 98th, and when the doors slid open Eames stood up, hitched his trousers in his irritating way, and waited, smiling, for Arthur to go out ahead of him.

Caldwell was set up in a tiny Pepto-pink seaside shack with crushed oyster shells in the front yard. He opened the door himself, and led them through the empty shell of the house to the garage, which had been gutted except for a couple of bare, glaring light bulbs. In the middle of the concrete floor was a table with a PASIV already set up--and on a lawn chair beside it was the accountant, Goodwin, already out. Arthur glanced at Caldwell.

"Just sedated. He hasn't seen any faces, and he's not going to."

"I need to talk to you." He walked back through the house to the front room, and Caldwell followed. "When did Eames join?"

"Couple of days ago." Caldwell frowned. "I told you I'd get a forger. We need the wife for this to work."

"You didn't tell me who you got."

"I didn't think I needed to." Caldwell was looking worried now. "What's wrong with Eames?"

"Nothing." Arthur looked toward the back of the house, wondering how much of this Eames could hear. "Did you find him, or did he find you?"

"I found him." Caldwell's answer was immediate. "He's on Cobb's list. Just like you." He was studying Arthur closely. "You don't like him."

"No. It's not that. Just...I'm supposed to know everyone on the job. Before they show up for work."

"Okay." Caldwell tried for a smile. "Sorry, it's a pretty basic grab. I guess I didn't follow all the protocols."

"Anything else you want to tell me?"

"No."

Arthur stared at him a moment longer, then shook his head and shrugged it off. It wasn't that weird, Eames turning up. Of course Caldwell used Cobb as a reference, and of course Cobb recommended Eames. It wouldn't have been weird at all except for Arthur's own bad judgment calls.

"I don't like surprises," he reminded Caldwell, starting back through the house. "Let's just get this done." He said it walking through the door into the garage, where Eames was leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone.

"Lovely," said Eames, putting the phone away and rolling up his sleeve. "Let's get in there, shall we?"

"Fifteen minutes," Caldwell said to Arthur. "You've got a watch?"

Arthur just looked at him.

 

He sat on the concrete steps from the kitchen into the garage, watching them sleep. He would have taken a chair but there wasn't a fourth one--something else Caldwell had messed up. Caldwell didn't usually make mistakes; if he did, Arthur wouldn't have taken the job. He sat watching the three motionless bodies aligned in their white chaise lounges, and wondered what was bugging him so much.

After five minutes, he got up and walked over to check the PASIV. It was running fine. The accountant, Goodwin, slept with his mouth open and his eyelids fluttering. Caldwell slept like a stone. Eames...Arthur took a moment to stand over him. Eames slept neatly, with his hands laced over his stomach and his ankles crossed, his face composed. Arthur watched him for a moment, not expecting any revelation and not getting any.

He went back to Caldwell. Something was still bothering him. It was a routine job, so why all the mistakes? On an impulse, he crouched and patted Caldwell down. A Glock in a holster under his arm--but that wasn't remarkable, that didn't mean anything. His cell phone, locked. Arthur sat holding it, staring at Caldwell's face in profile, thinking. Fifteen minutes. That was three hours in dream time.

They needed the time, Caldwell had said, because the mark was a deeply suspicious, introverted, almost paranoid character. Not a complicated guy, not anyone they had to worry about. A low-level pencil pusher, but all the personality tests from his hiring record showed him hanging way off the edge of the persecution spectrum, clinging by his fingernails to the very fringes of normal. Caldwell was going to be the company courier and Eames was going to be every bit the trusted wife, but even that was going to take a while, and a lot of careful handling, if it was going to go right.

Still. Three hours was a long time.

Arthur put the cell phone back in Caldwell's pocket, checked the time again, then went to his own jacket and took, from an inner pocket, the kit in which he kept an extra length of tubing and a needle. He checked the PASIV, hooked himself up, and lay down on the concrete floor between Eames and Goodwin. He set his own timer for three minutes, topside. Just enough time to see what was what.

As he lay there, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the drug to kick in, he remembered to reach into his jacket and rest his hand on the butt of his gun. Since the Fischer job, he'd been going into jobs that way. It was second nature by now.

 

He was in a hotel room, alone. That was fine, that made sense. Goodwin was supposed to think he was in a hotel, that he and his wife were spending the night before their tenth wedding anniversary there, that they were taking a plane to La Paz the next day. He was doing some last-minute work for the company, and then they were going to have a nice dinner in the hotel restaurant, and the wife--Eames--was going to lead the conversation around to work, remind Goodwin about the important documents he had in the hotel safe. He wasn't to forget to take them out for the company courier, the nice man in the crisp grey suit. The documents listed certain key names and dates related to a large financial transaction. They were very important.

Once the seed was planted--the documents in the envelope--then Caldwell just had to show up in his suit, knock twice, flash an ID, and accept the briefcase Goodwin willingly passed to him. Time-consuming, but simple.

The room was empty. That probably meant Eames and Goodwin were down in the restaurant, having dinner. It had been five minutes since they'd started the dream, about an hour down here. So, everything was going according to plan. There was no reason for Arthur to be here, no reason for him to have broken protocol and left the sleepers unattended, which was a stupid thing to do. Clearly, the best thing for him to do at this point was shoot himself in the head with the gun he had in his dreamed-up shoulder holster, get up off Caldwell's garage floor, and never mention this to anyone.

He went to the door, listened, then opened it carefully. Outside, the hallway was standard mid-range hotel: a red-and-gold carpet, a line of other doors leading down to an elevator lobby. Arthur left the door ajar and started down the hall. About halfway down he heard something--voices. He stopped, his hand finding the pistol under his jacket. Both male, but too quiet for him to make out the words. He started forward again. Ahead, one of the hotel doors was ajar. He edged up and peered around the frame.

There were people in the room--he couldn't see them, but he could hear movement inside, something slow and rhythmic. Bedsprings. Someone moaned. Eames. Fucking Eames, moaning in his own voice. It was fucking Eames in there, making sounds Arthur had heard him make before, sounds that made blood rush to Arthur's face, that made him instantly furious. Fucking Eames was having sex in a fucking dream hotel room, on the job--on the fucking job. With Caldwell? Not possible. Who, then? Goodwin?

He was an instant away from stepping into the room without a knock or a word, just to blast this pathetic, ruinous excuse for a job into smithereens, when he heard another voice.

"You should come back to Chicago with me. Come see my place."

It was his voice. His own voice. A little breathless, a little rough, and he was smiling--he could hear the smile in the words. Someone was in the room using his voice.

Then the bed creaked, and he moaned--the voice in the room, his voice, moaned--and Eames laughed.

"Is that an invitation?"

"Jesus." The Arthur voice sounded raw, surprised, a little disoriented.

"Aren't you pretty."

"Fuck...you."

Eames laughed again, and Arthur heard kissing, definite kissing. He reached into the holster and drew his gun. He inched forward into the room, checking to make sure he didn't show in the mirror. Eames was, what, fucking a projection? His own make-believe Arthur toy? It had never occurred to Arthur that Eames would do that kind of thing, that he would stoop that low, that he would ever need to stoop at all. It wasn't as if he hadn't already had Arthur in the flesh, in reality. Why the hell would he bother fucking around in a dream, on a job? None of it made sense.

"Where are you working next?" Arthur's voice asked, still kissing. "I'll come find you."

"You'll come and find me." Eames sounded jocular, not even pretending to believe the idea. "But you hate hot climates. It's so hard to stay properly starched."

"I don't care. Fuck, I have to go in a minute. I shouldn't even be down here. Just tell me where you're going."

"Don't go yet. Just let me finish this--"

Arthur's voice moaned again, louder, and he felt a rush of humiliation and thought, _fuck it_. He stepped into the room, the gun drawn but held down, pointing at the floor.

Eames was sprawled backward on the hotel bed, wearing the same clothes he was in topside, as if this encounter had surprised him back into his natural plumage. His ugly shirt was pulled up and his trousers were unzipped, showing his bare belly, the olive skin and the dark hair that thickened as it led down to his groin. His dick was out, pointing due north. His hands had fallen back onto the bedspread beside his head, palms up, the fingers curled loosely.

On top of him, straddling his hips, his suit jacket tossed aside, his vest unbuttoned and his tie pulled loose, his face flushed, his hair falling forward in slicked strands, his spread legs straining the fabric of his neat grey trousers, his shoulder holster still secured around his shoulders--was Arthur.

Eames sat halfway up, his face a perfect rictus of surprise. The second Arthur turned partway, saw Arthur, and reached for his gun.

That was when it hit Arthur--not a projection.

The other Arthur was still drawing his gun when Arthur shot him through the shoulder, knocking him half off Eames and, incidentally, hitting Eames and the bed with a spray of blood. Eames was scrabbling to sit up, to find his own gun, and while he did it, Arthur charged the bed, got a foot on the other Arthur's shoulder, and shoved him to the floor. He pinned him under one heel, pressing the gun to his head.

"Who are you?"

"What the fuck--" Eames was sitting up, wiping blood from his face. Arthur spared him a cursory glance, then turned back to the other Arthur, who was writhing in pain and scrabbling at his holster. Arthur put the barrel of the gun to his hip.

"Caldwell?" The other Arthur ground his teeth and clawed at the carpet. Arthur pushed the gun harder against the bone. "What the hell is going on?"

"Arthur, Christ." Eames slid off the bed and stood, keeping a wary distance. His gun, Arthur noticed, was finally in his hand.

"Eames," coughed the other Arthur, from the floor. "Jesus--help me!"

"Shut up," said Arthur, and shot him again, in the foot. The other Arthur screamed and doubled over, and Arthur took the opportunity to roll him, pluck the gun from his holster, and throw it onto the bed.

"What the hell," Eames yelled, "is going on?"

"First," Arthur said, "you were fucking around on the job. Second, this isn't me. This is a forge." He knelt beside the sobbing, writhing body, and patted it down for more weapons. None he could feel. "Third, we both need to wake up. As soon as I find out what's going on."

Eames stared at him, then looked down at the blood-soaked body at his knees. He was taking it in, Arthur could see that. But there was still some doubt there, some worry that maybe the wrong man was talking to him.

"Eames," the forge coughed. "For fuck's sake, Eames—"

Arthur grabbed the forge's hand, pinned it to the floor, and placed the muzzle of the gun against the palm. "Eames, go watch the door." He glanced back; Eames was staring at him, starting to shake his head. "Fine." He didn't think about it. He just raised the gun and put a bullet through Eames's forehead. It made an even bigger mess on the bedspread, and on the carpet where the body fell.

When he turned back, the forge's face had changed. It was Goodwin--or the man who'd played Goodwin's part, whoever he was. He lay there in Arthur's gory, ragged clothes, staring up at Arthur with a look of rage and contempt.

"You're dead," he said. "You're dead and he's in the bag. It doesn't matter what you do to me down here, up there you're the one that's screwed, ponyboy."

"Who are you working--" Arthur said, and then the world tilted.

 

And he was awake, one sharp hypnic jerk on the garage floor and he was being dragged to his feet, reeling and off-balance, a bright pain inside his elbow where the needle still dangled.

"Come on," Eames whispered. "Come on, get up."

He caught the glare of the overhead light bulb, the bare concrete floor, and remembered--Far Rockaway. Caldwell's little pink house. The back door led into a fenced yard, he remembered not liking that but Caldwell had insisted it was all right. Why had he let Caldwell insist? It was a milk run, it was a vacation job. He'd been sloppy.

"Arthur," Eames said quietly, holding him around the arm in a hot grip. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah." He pulled his arm free and yanked the IV from it. "Yeah. The back yard's fenced."

"Fuck." Eames was flushed, looking around the bare garage. His eyes fell on Caldwell and Goodwin, still plugged in. "What the fuck is going on here?"

Arthur shook his head. "I don't know. It was Goodwin, in the hotel. He said they were going to kill us."

There was a sound at the front door. Not a crash, not a battering ram--just someone very quietly turning a key in the lock. If he hadn't been on edge, if he hadn't been listening for it, Arthur was sure he wouldn't have heard it. He looked at Eames and saw he'd heard it too. In silence, they separated and went to stand on opposite sides of the garage door, their guns drawn.

One of Arthur's talents was the ability to think very quickly, and without emotion, under pressure. Right now he was thinking extremely fast. Whoever was running this, so far they had no way of knowing that the job had gone wrong. They had no reason to know, they didn't have a pipe into the dream. They were just on a schedule--someone was supposed to come into the house, shoot Arthur, then wait for the dreamers to wake up. While Arthur was congealing on the garage floor, Goodwin would be down in the dream, pillow-talking with Eames. That was what they wanted—Eames's next job. That's what the whole thing was about.

Very quietly, footsteps advanced through the house. Through the living room and into the kitchen.

Arthur spared a glance for Caldwell and Goodwin, wishing Eames had left him in there long enough to tie the guy up. All Goodwin had to do was make it up onto the bed, get his gun, shoot himself--and they'd have a whole new mess to deal with up here. For fuck's sake, he hadn't even had a chance to get Caldwell's gun off him topside. It was starting to look like the smart thing would be to shoot both of them before they even woke up.

Eames was trying to get his attention, he realized. Not moving, but glaring. Arthur followed his gaze, and saw the little plastic box on the wall beside his shoulder. The garage door opener. Okay. He nodded to Eames. Gunman first, then garage door. And hope there wasn't a carload more of them waiting in the driveway.

The footsteps came through the kitchen and softly, almost inaudibly, down the hall to the garage. A man, a professional. Arthur knew that without even seeing him. He relaxed his grip on his gun, took a deep breath, and caught Eames's eye. Eames was sweating. He nodded. Arthur stepped into the doorway, saw the man in the black stocking cap at the same moment as he saw the Glock in the man's hand. At the same moment as he fired his own gun into the man's head. A single shot, squeezed not snapped, and then he stepped back into the weak shelter of the door frame, the gun still raised, waiting.

It had only taken a couple of seconds. There was a thump, a gurgle, a thudding sound. Then silence. Arthur signaled Eames, and jerked his head at Caldwell. Eames checked the hall, then turned and went back to the lounge chairs. In less than half a minute he had Caldwell's gun out of its holster, and was frisking Goodwin. Arthur checked the hallway himself, saw the body slumped against the baseboard, and went up the stairs carefully, his finger on the trigger. The man was dead. His gun had a silencer, he carried no ID. His face, when Arthur raised the mask, was a mess. Head shots did that. But he could see it wasn't anybody he recognized, at least.

"Nothing," Eames said, in a loud whisper. He was stuffing one gun down his pants, flashing another in his hand. "Couple of pieces, nothing else. Not even a driver's license."

"Get Caldwell's phone."

Arthur tried to think of anything else that would be useful, anything they were overlooking--but short of tying Caldwell and Goodwin to their chairs and interrogating them, he couldn't. There wasn't time for that, even if he'd had the stomach for it. There could be a dozen more gunmen waiting outside. Or none. Either way, it was time to go.

"Any more?" Eames meant the hallway; Arthur shook his head, but as soon as he did it he heard someone at the front door. Someone was coming in fast, not bothering to be as quiet as the first guy. Arthur's heart jumped, and he hit the garage door opener with his elbow. It whirred to life, and the door started to creak open. At the same moment he saw Caldwell lifting his head groggily, and Goodwin starting to stir.

"Fuck--" Eames handed him the extra gun and waved him toward the garage door. As he crossed the open doorway a shot splintered the wall behind him; he ducked and covered the rest of the floor to the opening door at a crouch. Eames fired a couple of shots into the hallway, then flattened himself back against the wall. A pause, then another couple of shots hammered the far wall, behind Caldwell and Goodwin.

"Jesus--" Caldwell rolled off his chair and crawled behind the PASIV.

Goodwin was just waking up. Arthur didn't wait to see what he'd do; he had his gun at shin level, and was staying low, ready to fire into the driveway if he had to. Amazingly, the driveway looked empty. They had about three feet of clearance now, enough to scuttle through, so he scraped under and jerked to his feet, the gun in both hands, ready to fire at the snap of a twig. Nothing in sight. Inside, Eames fired again, twice and then once more. The sound was deafening, the sound of total professional disaster. They were in a fucking neighborhood, for God's sake. Arthur crouched, trying to see what was going on in there while keeping an eye on the street.

"Eames!" he yelled, and then something hit him in the middle of his back, knocking him face-first into the driveway. His head and his gun hand hit the pavement, the gun went flying. On a second's delay, a rusty hook of pain dug into the side of his face where it was ground into the driveway. There was something in his back, something huge and heavy, grinding through his spine. Someone was kneeling on him, pinning him. The extra gun was in his trousers, underneath his body. He tried to turn, tried to reach it. He couldn't breathe. His eyes were starting to go black. He felt something cold and hard press against his skull, just behind his ear.

Then he was hit from the side, hard enough to flip him like an egg, and he gasped, tasting wet blood down the back of his throat. He heard a rapid scuffling, then a muffled whumping sound, and looked over to see Eames kneeling on top of a guy in a black bomber jacket. A dark red pool was spreading out beneath the guy's torso. There was a silenced Glock on the driveway beside him.

Eames's face was fixed, taut, a little insane. He stayed where he was, staring down at the guy for a moment longer. Long enough to make sure. Then turned to look at Arthur.

"All right?"

Arthur nodded, peeling himself up off the concrete. His face was badly fucked up, he could feel it--he was bleeding hard, his cheek and forehead felt hot and raw, skinless. He grabbed his gun, checked the clip, and staggered to his feet. Behind them, the garage door was still rising, revealing more and more of the bullet-riddled walls and the shining silver dream box and the three dead men sprawled over the floor amid the blood-spattered lawn furniture. He took a single step back, headed for the PASIV.

There was a squeal of tires at the end of the block. Eames grabbed Arthur's arm and took off running in the opposite direction.

 

 

They dodged through back alleys until they reached a main street with a few restaurants, some bodegas and cafés. Arthur waited by a Dumpster while Eames went inside a tiny store and came out carrying a plastic bag, then followed his phone to a park with a public bathroom. The men's room was filthy but it had a door that closed. Eames blocked it with the trash can, handed the bag to Arthur, and went to wash his hands. Inside the bag was a bottle of water, a three-pack of clean white socks, and a fifth of vodka.

"You're going to drink." Arthur stood with his hand pressed to the seeping, bloody mess of his forehead, and considered shooting Eames in the back.

"It's not for me." Eames shook water off his hands--there were no paper towels--and rolled up his sleeves. "We need to get back to the city, we need a cab. And a cab won't take you if you're covered in blood."

"So you got socks?"

"I'm improvising." Eames tore open the socks, doused one in vodka, and pressed it to Arthur's head. Arthur jerked back, swearing. Eames looked at him. Arthur grabbed the sock and held it to his own skin. It felt like a pitchy brand was being shoved into his skull.

"Jesus Christ. What the fuck happened back there?"

Eames shook his head. "I don't know."

"This was supposed to be a milk run. It was a milk run, until you showed up. Who were those guys?"

"I don't know."

"And what the fuck were you doing in the dream? What was that, exactly? Your own little porn show while the rest of us are at work?"

"I didn't know, all right?"

"You didn't know what? That it wasn't a good idea to fuck around in the middle of a job?"

Eames said nothing. He wrenched the cap off the water bottle and doused another sock. "Here. Clean that out, it's full of grit."

Arthur grabbed the sock, infuriated and humiliated. "You thought I'd just stop being point for a while so I could come down there and fuck you?"

"You did drop in."

"Not to fuck you." Arthur swapped socks, noticing with disgust that the first one was blood-soaked, and wincing as the second one went on. "I didn't realize it needed saying, but I will never stop doing my job so I can snatch a quickie with you, or anyone else for that matter. Because that's fucking stupid and it's how you get killed--"

"Okay. Okay, I've got it." Eames was pissed--his face was red and he was glaring, sloshing water over another sock. "It was stupid, I apologize. Right now we need to get back to civilization and find out what the hell this is all about."

It was on the tip of Arthur's tongue to say, _I don't need to do anything. This is your problem, not mine._ But it wasn't true--those guys had been shooting at him too, it was his problem now too. He turned and whipped the bloody, booze-soaked sock hard against the wall of the bathroom, where it left a red splotch the size of a grapefruit.

 

It took almost half an hour for his head to stop bleeding, time that he spent holding a sock to his head and pacing while Eames worked on Caldwell's phone. When Eames finally said, "Ah--" in a tone that meant he'd gotten something, Arthur spun around so fast he almost fell over.

"What?"

"Hm." Eames was scrolling through calls--somehow he'd broken Caldwell's password. "Lots of international numbers. Nothing definite."

"What does that mean?"

Eames glanced up. "That means I don't recognize any of the numbers, Arthur. Maybe you'd like to try."

“If somebody got to Caldwell, chances are good that some of those numbers are important.”

“Yes, that was my thought as well.” Eames was sounding mild and upper-class, which meant he was pissed off. He slipped Caldwell's phone into his pocket and swigged from the water bottle he'd been using to soak the socks. "I think it's time we found our ride."

It was on the tip of Arthur's tongue to say, _fuck you_ , to throw a wet sock in Eames's face and walk out on his own--but that was stupid. He couldn't afford to be stupid now. They needed a cab, they needed to get back to the city, they needed to get in touch with some people they could trust, who could shed some light. Now was not the time to split up, not yet. He swallowed his anger, threw the last sock away, and touched his forehead carefully with his fingertips.

Eames, watching, gave a sympathetic wince. "Nice bit of road rash."

"Am I going to scare off our cabbie?"

"Not with my handsome smile backing you up." Eames gave him the handsome smile automatically, his eyes remote. He cracked the door with his hand on the revolver in the back of his trousers, looked out, then nodded. "Okay."

They went out through the park, and through some miracle, Eames actually hailed a cab and talked the guy into taking them back to the city. They rode in incense-scented silence, staring out opposite windows at the ocean flashing by. Halfway there, Arthur's phone buzzed. It was Eden. He put it back in his pocket without answering, conscious of Eames's gaze.

At Washington Square Park Eames paid in cash, handing a wad of bills through the driver's window while Arthur lingered by the trunk, trying to look inconspicuous. There was dried blood all over his shirt front and his face was starting to swell. He was beyond pissed off, so far beyond it that he'd come back around to his strong suit, careful planning.

"We split up," he told Eames, as soon as the cab was gone. "I'll make some calls and get in touch."

Eames nodded. "You're here with someone?"

Arthur said nothing, which was as good as saying yes.

"You'll need another place then," Eames said. "Unless you're dating someone in the business."

"I don't date people in the business."

There was just the slightest pause before Eames answered--just enough to point out that Arthur's scruples weren't really all that high. "So then you'll need another place."

"I'm not coming back to your hotel."

"I'm not suggesting it. Get your own room. Somewhere unobtrusive."

"Thank you, Eames. I know what to do in a situation like this."

"Oh, good. When you've got it all ironed out, ring me up and tell me. Because I have no fucking clue what to do in this situation." He turned and walked away across the park.


	2. The Third Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are we talking about this? What is there to talk about?”
> 
> Eames looked surprised. “Quite a lot, I thought. Don't you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I finished this, I read Rageprufrock's [excellent untitled Arthur/Eames fic](http://rageprufrock.dreamwidth.org/42446.html), which also involves a bar called Gilt. Strange coincidence. Hers is in NYC, mine's in Chicago. They both exist. Anyway, can't recommend her story highly enough. And definitely also read Helenish's story, [Practice Makes Perfect](http://helenish.livejournal.com/164280.html), which riffs on Pru's, and which is also extremely excellent and hot and hilarious. Basically, cheers to both those ladies for such great stories, and wow, what is it about Arthur and Eames that brings out the Gilt in us all?

Arthur called Eden from his room in a crappy La Quinta in Little Korea.

"Where are you?" She sounded like she was on the train. "We're going for drinks--can you meet us in SoHo?"

"I..." He leaned close to the mirror, inspecting the gory mess of his cheek and forehead. "Actually, I had to leave town."

"You...what?"

"I'm really sorry. It was an emergency, they needed someone in Montreal before the markets open tomorrow. I really didn't have a choice."

"You're in Montreal?"

"I'm on my way." He was staring at his eyes now, trying to decide if they looked any different when he was lying. They didn't, but he kept trying to tell himself they did. "I'm really sorry. I'll see you at home, okay?"

"Wait, you're just...gone?"

"I'm really sorry."

There was a pause, the rattle of the train car. "What do you want me to do with your stuff?"

"Uh..." He'd already picked up a pack of cheap T-shirts at a Rite-Aid. He needed jeans, a jacket that would hide the guns. He had all of it at the apartment, but he wasn't going to get it anytime soon. "Take it back with you, I guess. If you don't mind."

There was another pause. Then she said, "Arthur, is everything okay?"

"Fine. Look, I'm sorry. I'll--" He'd been about to say _I'll make it up to you_ , as if they were in some badly-scripted Lifetime movie. "I'll see you in Chicago."

He hung up feeling like shit. The phone rang again immediately: the caller ID said Lester P. Oakes. Which meant Eames.

"I talked to Cobb. He's very surprised to learn that Caldwell was working at all, much less that they apparently spoke less than a week ago."

"Cobb didn't recommend you for the job."

"No, he did not."

"You didn't call Cobb when Caldwell solicited you?"

"I've been a bit busy. And this was, as you've already pointed out, a milk run."

"I've worked with Caldwell plenty of times. I can't believe he sold us out."

"Apparently, he had a price." Eames paused, then called to someone off the phone. "Be right there."

"You're not alone?" Arthur felt his back go up, his stomach clench. If he'd just sloughed Eden off in the messiest, worst way possible, and Eames was holed up with someone of his own--

"Room service," Eames said, sounding irritated. "I have to go."

"I'll try Saito."

"Why Saito?"

"Maybe you know some other multibillionaires who know the business and are willing to use their resources on our behalf?"

Eames laughed, just a little. "How's your face?"

"I look like a smashed egg."

"Put ice on it."

"Jesus Christ, Eames."

He hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone in his hands, trying not to notice that he felt better.

 

Saito didn't know anything but said he'd call back in half an hour. There was nothing else to do, so Arthur took a shower, changed into a clean T-shirt, and ordered a hamburger from the La Quinta kitchen. It arrived as he was flicking through the channels, skating from CNN to ESPN, looking unsuccessfully for anything that would distract him.

"Whoah," said the room service guy, looking at Arthur's face. "Skateboard flail?"

"Something like that." Arthur paid in cash and bolted the door behind the guy when he left.

The burger was terrible but he ate it fast, realizing as he did it that he was ravenous. He hadn't eaten since morning, and it was almost six o'clock. If his window hadn't looked out onto an air shaft, he would have been able to see all the city's nighttime lights.

He muted the television and lay back on the bed, going over the pieces. Eames was the real target; Arthur had been incidental. Someone had known that if Arthur was working a job, Eames would be likely to join up. Someone had known that Arthur and Eames had been, not to put too fine a point on it, fucking around. Someone had hired a forge and got to Caldwell and staged an elaborate cover, to get Eames to talk about his next job. And someone had been willing to kill Arthur to get that information. Probably Eames too, since once he got back topside and found Arthur's dead body spread all over the garage floor, he was going to twig that something was up.

The key, apparently, was Eames's next job. And Arthur had no idea what it was, except that it was happening somewhere hot. Somewhere Arthur wouldn't want to go. If Eames's sex-talk was to be believed.

He was running through that scenario again in his mind--Eames sprawled on the dream-bed under the forged Arthur's splayed legs, the few words of conversation he'd heard from the doorway--when the phone rang. It startled him, and he realized he was blushing and also, humiliatingly, a little turned on. Digging the heel of one hand into his crotch, he picked up.

"Mr. Eames," Saito said, "has been working with some very powerful people."

"Some very powerful, angry people."

"Yes. My men will be there in five minutes."

Arthur paused. "What--"

"We should discuss this in person. Not over the phone. Please be ready to leave when they arrive."

"But how do you know where--"

"Four minutes," said Saito, and hung up.

Arthur stared at the phone, thinking, not for the first time, that Saito was kind of a scary bastard.

 

 

They arrived right on time, three guys in nice suits with slightly bulky underarms and little translucent coils leading from their ears down into their collars. Arthur felt sheepish pulling his blood-stained suit jacket off its hanger in front of them. One of them, the front man apparently, frowned at Arthur's face.

"You're injured."

"It's just road rash."

"Give me the jacket."

Arthur handed it over and the man took it, rolled it up, and passed it to another guy, who had a plastic bag ready and waiting. The third guy was moving through the room, picking up the little signs of Arthur's residence--a bloodied tissue from the waste basket, the towel he'd used to dry off, the greasy plate the burger had come on. It all went into the plastic bag, and the top was tied off tightly.

"Your gun," said the first man. Arthur hesitated, then took his pistol from the back of his trousers and handed it over. The man took it, checked the clip, and handed it away. They looked at each other. Arthur took a deep breath, then went to the safe and took out Caldwell's gun.

"I sure hope Mr. Saito's not pissed off at me," he said, and handed it over too. The man took it without comment, checked the clip, and handed it away, like clockwork. Then he gave Arthur a critical look, from head to toe, and nodded.

"Let's go."

They took the stairs down to the parking level, where there was a fourth guy waiting in a black SUV, the motor running. Arthur was loaded into the back, between two of the other guys. He was sweating. Being helped by Saito felt a lot like being kidnapped.

"You want to tell me where we're going?" he asked nobody in particular, not expecting an answer. He didn't get one. The SUV pulled out of the parking garage and hit the street, heading uptown.

 

Not surprisingly, Saito had a place on the Upper East Side, overlooking the park. Arthur didn't catch the address, not that it mattered. They took an elevator from the garage to the penthouse, and got out in a black marble lobby with a bowl of irises on an end table.

"This way," said the lead guy, starting down a narrow hallway. Arthur followed, noticing with relief that the other guys faded away as he did so.

The hall led to a big sitting room with a fireplace, a Renoir, and a million-dollar view of the park. Eames was sitting on a sofa, reading something in a folder. He looked up as they came in, and frowned at Arthur.

"You do look like a smashed egg."

"Shut up."

"Mr. Saito will be here soon," the guy said, and left.

Arthur walked around the room, letting his nerves subside. He could feel Eames watching him. It had already occurred to him, and probably also to Eames, that this was going to get embarrassing.

"Anything you want to tell me before Saito gets here?" He stood looking at the Renoir.

"Is this my opportunity to apologize?" Eames sounded amused. "I'm sorry you got wrapped up in my mess? I'm sorry your face got mashed into a driveway?"

"If you want to. Sure."

"Oh, well then." Eames coughed, ostentatiously letting the opportunity go by. "Let's just say I've learned my lesson."

Arthur kept his eyes on the Renoir. It was surprising, how stung he felt. He wanted to snap something back at Eames, but that was stupid. He'd already spent enough time being stupid around Eames.

"Or you could use this time to tell me what Saito's going to say, when he gets here."

"Why ruin the surprise?"

"He knows who you've been working with."

"Of course he does." Arthur turned; Eames held up the folder. "He's got piles of data on all of us. Yours is very interesting."

"What?"

Eames flipped back a couple of pages, found his place with his finger, and summarized: "Ceramicist, good family, lots of money. DUI in college, naughty girl." He looked up. "The only thing he doesn't have is whether she calls you angelface or crumpet."

Arthur started for the couch. Eames held up his hands in self-defense.

"You can't blame me for skimming. Here, read mine." He took another folder from the table beside him and skated it at Arthur, who caught it awkwardly in both hands. It was a plain manila folder with a clamp binding and a six-digit number stamped on the outside. Inside was a sheaf of papers and a glossy black-and-white photograph of Eames's head and shoulders, probably taken before the Fischer job. He was in some public place, a sunny cafe or bar, wearing a pale short-sleeved shirt and staring off to the left of the shooter--a telephoto, probably. Beneath the photo was a cover page with Eames's name, known aliases (Arthur noted Lester P. Oakes in the list) and a last-updated date of two days before. Apparently Saito kept his intel fresh.

"Go ahead," said Eames. "I'm sure it's lively reading."

Arthur tossed the folder back onto the sofa. "I really don't want to know."

Eames shrugged and dropped Arthur's folder, folding his hands across his stomach. "She seems like more of an angelface type to me."

"So, what, you're mad at me, now?"

"Just passing the time."

"We didn't exactly have an exclusive arrangement."

Eames's smile was genial. "How'd you handle it, not coming back to the flat?"

Arthur hesitated. "I told her I'd left town." Eames winced. "Look, what was I going to say? She thinks I'm an investment analyst."

"Right. Well, I'm sure it'll be fine. As long as the relationship's based on trust."

"For fuck's sake--"

The elevator opened, back in the lobby, and they both looked that way. Saito emerged, in a long dark coat and scarf, sliding a cell phone into his pocket. He looked grim--but then, Saito always looked grim.

"This is very serious," he said, without preamble. He pulled off the scarf, dropped it on a chair, and looked at Eames. "You are in a great deal of trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" Arthur asked. Eames wasn't smiling anymore. "What kind of trouble, exactly?"

"The kind of trouble," Saito said, "that comes when you steal from Emmanuele Bankole."

Arthur paused. "Who's Emmanuele Bankole?"

"Nigerian arms dealer," Eames said shortly. He looked tense. "Part-time industrialist, part-time warlord."

"A very rich man," Saito confirmed. "A very rich, angry man."

Arthur looked from Saito to Eames. "What did you steal?"

Eames looked away out the window. "The question is, how do I make amends? Preferably before he whacks my head off and mounts it on a spike."

"You return the money you stole," said Saito. "With interest."

"Not possible. I don't have it anymore."

Saito drew in a breath, and let it out slowly. Arthur had the unpleasant sense that Saito's patience was close to its breaking point.

"Where is the money?"

"With a man named Priffen. I give him the money, I do a little job for him, he gives me..." Eames looked chagrined. "An island."

"An island?" Arthur stared at Eames, who shrugged. "What the hell do you need an island for?"

"It's pretty." Eames gave Arthur a sour, challenging look. "And I thought maybe you'd come visit me there."

Arthur glanced instinctively at Saito, whose face hadn't changed. "Are you kidding me?"

"This," Saito said, "is very stupid." He raised a hand and pointed at each of them in turn. "You have been indiscreet. And Mr. Eames has been foolhardy. More than foolhardy. Stealing from Bankole is for idiots and dead men."

Eames looked down at his hands, and said nothing.

"So now what?" Arthur asked.

Saito reached down and picked up one of the folders on the table. He flipped it open, glanced at the photograph on top--it was Arthur's--then closed it.

"There are things Mr. Bankole would not want publicly known." He leaned over and laid the folder down neatly on top of Eames's. "I will contact him, and negotiate a truce. When it's done, I will send word and you may go. Mr. Eames, you will not meet this Priffen man for the next job. You will not do anything that might be considered a provocation to Mr. Bankole."

Eames nodded.

"We have a history together," Saito said, looking at them. "The Fischer job went above and beyond my expectations. But please do not believe that I will solve problems like this for you in future. You would both do well to behave with more...maturity."

Arthur felt his cheeks go hot.

"The apartment is stocked with food and medicine. Your face--" He was looking at Arthur. "Will require care. I will send word when it is safe to go." Saito turned and took his scarf off the chair, folding it neatly into thirds. "Don't leave the apartment until then."

He walked away down the hall, his shoes clicking crisply. They watched until the elevator doors closed behind him. Then Arthur turned to Eames.

"A fucking _island_?"

 

 

The apartment was huge, which helped ease some of the tension. Eames installed himself in the master bedroom, with the view of the park and the mammoth flat-screen television mounted to the wall. That was fine with Arthur, since it was probably the room Saito used when he stayed in the place, and the thought of sleeping in Saito's bed was weird and disturbing. He took a smaller room off the main hallway, just a twin bed and a half-bath. There was a sketch over the bed that he was pretty sure was an original Cassat.

He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of the gigantic television playing faintly from Eames's room. Some kind of sports, with lots of shouting.

He was still well beyond pissed off--but he was also exhausted, and the whole thing had taken on a loopy, surreal quality. Eames had stolen an island. Or tried to. What the hell was he thinking? Why the hell did he need an _island?_

Under other circumstances Arthur would have gone to ask him, but he was still pissed off, and he had other things to worry about. His face, for one. He'd found a disturbingly complete first aid kit in the hall closet, and had spent some time up close and personal with the bathroom mirror, extracting grit and applying salve, then a bandage. When he was done he looked less like a serving of raw hamburger and more like he'd lost a boxing match. He took a Tylenol with codeine and went to brood on the bed, listening to Eames's sports.

He was almost asleep when his phone rang. He knew without looking that it was Eden.

"How's Montreal?" she asked, and her tone was a dead giveaway. She'd called around, she'd asked a friend to check up, whatever. He could feel the whole thing collapsing, like a newspaper boat that had soaked up too much bath water.

"Look," he said, and then couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Where are you?" Her voice was plaintive, angry, and desperate. He made a fist and pressed it to his forehead.

"I'm sorry. It's not...it's not working out."

There was a pause. He could hear her taking that on board.

"It's not working out...and _this_ is how you tell me?"

"My life is really fucked up. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? You ditch me with no warning and you're sorry?" She laughed. "I don't believe this."

"I wish it could be different."

"I seriously don't believe you. Who takes off in the middle of a vacation? You left all your stuff, Arthur. I'm supposed to do what with that? Mail it to you?"

"Just...throw it away."

"Oh, thanks. I'll do that. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"It's complicated."

"I bet. Listen, I was willing to put up with the weird fake-consultant stuff. I was willing to put up with you never talking about your family or your life or _anything_ , and the weird sleep stuff--"

"What weird--"

"--and the jumpiness and the paranoia and everything else, because I thought I could fix you, I always think I can fix guys like you, and it always ends up like this. I swear to God, someday I'm going to learn my lesson."

"Eden--"

"Go be a junkie, Arthur. Go do whatever it is you do, in your weird little world. Good luck with that. I'll see you whenever."

"Eden, listen--"

"To what?"

He didn't say anything.

"I thought so," she said, and hung up.

He pressed the phone to his forehead, closed his eyes, and bottomed out. He was still lying like that when Eames tapped at his door.

"Fuck off," Arthur said. His voice betrayed him a little.

Eames waited a moment, then went back down the hall.

 

Arthur fell asleep, and woke up sometime in the very early morning with no idea where he was. It took a few seconds to come back, and then he got up and went to the bathroom to wash his face and strip off the sweaty T-shirt. He looked like hell.

In the kitchen, he fried an egg and sat to eat it at the long dark dining table, under a single pendant light. The city was dark and huge, glittering with lights on the far side of the park. When he finished eating he pushed the plate away and sat with his chin on his hand, just looking.

He heard Eames coming down the hall, but didn't turn to face him. Neither of them said anything for a couple of minutes. Eames took another chair and sat leaning forward over the table, fiddling with his poker chip.

"I really did think you'd like it," he said at last. "Grand gesture and all that."

Arthur laughed.

"It had a villa," Eames went on. "And a plantation. Remnants, anyway. Very picturesque."

"Where is it?"

"That would be telling."

"Well, you're not getting it now, so you might as well tell me."

"You never know."

Arthur looked over at Eames. He was wearing a different shirt, one of Saito's probably, a little too small for him and open at the neck and wrists. His hair fell over his forehead, and he had circles under his eyes. He looked rueful and tired.

"I'm sorry you got caught up in my mess," he said quietly. "And I'm sorry your lovely face got mashed into a driveway."

"Fuck off." There was no force in it, though. To Arthur's own surprise, he wasn't angry.

"Tomorrow you'll be a free man. You can go back to your ceramicist and your flat in Chicago, and I promise you, it will be like this never happened."

Arthur turned to give Eames a flat look. "You heard me. On the phone."

Eames didn't bother to look surprised. "Well, you were talking rather loudly. And I am just down the hall." He paused, then added, "I'm sorry, though. She does seem like a nice girl."

"Jesus, shut up."

Eames got up and went across the room, then came back carrying a couple of glasses and a bottle. Tequila, Arthur saw with bleak amusement.

"Am I supposed to drink my troubles away, now?"

"No." Eames put down the glasses and poured them each a generous amount. "Drinking doesn't make your troubles go away. It does, however, make them seem less ominous."

"Even the thought of your head on Bankole's spike?"

Eames raised his glass. "To keeping our heads."

Arthur picked up his glass, knowing it was a bad idea, that he'd regret it. "Sure."

They drank. It was very good tequila.

"Saito thinks we're perverts," Arthur said morosely, staring out the window.

"He's a traditionalist. But he honors his friendships."

"Who else knows?"

“What, about us?” Eames laughed. “Who doesn't know?”

“Cobb?”

“Oh, well. Cobb's a special case, he's got his head so far up his arse he hardly knows where he lives these days.”

“Who else?”

“Ariadne, Yusuf. Caldwell, obviously. Robert fucking Fischer, for all I know. Or care.” Eames swigged from his glass. “What does it matter?”

“Well, for one thing, it can be used against us. Obviously.”

Eames acknowledged that with a nod. “Only if we're stupid. Which I've pledged not to be, on pain of Saito giving me a severe talking-to.”

“Reputation matters in this business, Eames.”

“Oh thank you, Arthur. I wasn't aware.”

“Maybe you've made enough money to retire on, but I haven't. I still need to work.”

“I've been queer as a three-pound note, to borrow a phrase, for years now. Hasn't stopped me getting work.” Eames leaned forward over the table and lowered his tone confidentially. “I've found they don't mind so much if you're the fucking best at whatever it is you do.”

Arthur put his glass down. “What are we really talking about here?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Why are we talking about this? What is there to talk about?”

Eames looked surprised. “Quite a lot, I thought. Don't you?”

“I don't see why. We fucked around, it was stupid, we got caught, end of story.”

Eames sat back. “I see.”

“For the love of Christ, Eames.”

“That's it for you, then. You're just going to shove it all back into the hole and climb in after it.” Eames raised his glass. “Be sure you cinch the lid down tight.”

“Nice.”

“It's true, though, isn't it? You like fucking me but you don't like sleeping with me. Just me, or any bloke? I think it's anyone. I think you find pretty girls to date so you look normal, but it never really works out with them and you keep going back to what you really want. Which is me, or blokes like me.” He finished his tequila and put down the glass. “Am I right?”

Arthur said nothing. His hand was locked around his glass.

“The sad thing,” Eames went on, “is that I knew it the minute I first saw you. I knew it and I still went after you, because you're lovely and that's what I do, chase lovely fucked-up people. I should know better. I did know better, but I didn't stop myself. I bought you a fucking island, instead.” He laughed. “I tried to, anyway.”

“I don't want an island.” Arthur's throat felt tight and hard, as if there were a fist clenched around it. “I never asked you to do anything for me.”

“No,” said Eames. “You didn't.” He pushed his glass away, stood up, and went back down the hall in silence.

 

 

Saito's call came through at a little after nine that morning. Arthur was in bed in the little guest room, in a gritty-eyed half sleep. It wasn't Saito on the line, it was someone else, a man who just said, “Mr. Bankole says to stay out of Nigeria. And Mr. Saito reminds you of the need for discretion.”

“Okay,” he said. The man hung up. Down the hall, Eames's cell was ringing.

Arthur hauled himself out of bed, feeling like his limbs were made of lead and asphalt. In the mirror, the swelling on his face had gone down but his eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. He splashed himself with water, combed his hair back, got back into his shirt and trousers.

In the hallway outside, his pistol was waiting on a table across from the bedroom door, on top of a wool winter coat. Neatly folded in the coat's pocket were ten hundred-dollar bills. Bus money from Saito.

Eames's door opened, and he came out shrugging into his jacket. His own gun was hanging in its holster from the door handle; he paused to recognize it, then took off his coat and pulled the holster on over his shirt.

“Bankole's letting it go,” Arthur said, not so much stating the fact as testing the idea out, hoping for confirmation. Eames spared him a glance.

“My head stays on my shoulders,” he said. “For now, at least.”

“That's good.”

Eames didn't bother to reply to that. He pulled his jacket on, smoothed it over the gun, and walked past Arthur with a nod.

“Where are you going?” Arthur called after him, unable to stop himself. Eames, waiting for the elevator, gave him a faintly surprised look, as if he were a total stranger who'd asked a personal question.

“Not Africa,” he said. “Don't worry.”

Arthur stood fingering the money in his pocket. “Eames.”

The elevator doors opened. Eames stepped inside, turned around, and punched his button. There was a moment there, when Arthur could have said something else, could have made it down the hall in time to catch the doors before they closed. Eames's eyes were raised up, on the lights above the elevator doors.

Arthur said nothing, and didn't move. The doors closed. Eames was gone.

 

 

He drove back to Chicago, splitting it into two days of blowing snow and hail, and staying the night in a cheap roadside motel outside of Akron, in perverse self-punishment. In between he listened to the radio, to whatever pop songs and country and Bible lectures and tejano he could get. It all faded into a subaural buzz, leaving him hours of empty time to watch the road. He didn't think. He just drove.

Eden had mailed him a few things—some clothes, the book he'd brought, his shaving kit. There was no note. Looking through the pile, he noticed that there was nothing personal about any of it—it could have been stuff she'd just bought, or stuff from some other guy's closet. He went through the whole apartment, studying his things. They were all like that, neat and well-maintained and anonymous. He still hadn't bought an apartment; he was living in a rental, month-to-month, until he decided what to do.

He picked up his voice mail messages, checked email, got in touch with Cobb to let him know things were okay, nobody was dead. He sent Saito a bottle of tequila and a thank-you note. It was the least he could do.

He needed work but not right away, and it seemed smart to take a little while off, to let the dust settle. That left him with time on his hands, so he went to the museum, went to a couple of matinees, bought a few books and read them with his shoes off, on the couch. He had a hard time focusing on things. Nothing seemed very interesting.

 

 

A few weeks after he got home there was a break in the weather, a little long-delayed hit of spring that made everyone in the city call in sick, and filled the streets with giddy, sun-dumb people. Arthur was one of them—he went out to buy milk at the corner store, and ended up walking halfway across town. He was headed vaguely for the Art Institute, but when he got there he couldn't imagine going inside on a day like this. The park was full of people, tourists and locals, splashing through the snowmelt and smiling at each other. He wandered without much purpose, until he ended up at the Bean.

His reflection looked pretty much the same as it had all those months before, when Eames had first appeared and asked him out to dinner. The road rash had healed up pretty well—all he had left was a little high color on his cheek bone and temple. Nothing to write home about.

He stared at himself for a while, pretending he wasn't waiting for Eames to appear out of nowhere, windblown and cheerful, everything forgiven. He gave it time. When he finally turned and walked away, the day didn't seem as warm. The afternoon was fading into early evening, and he had to zip his jacket against the chill.

He crossed back over the river and walked more or less in the direction of his apartment. Stores were closing, and bars and restaurants were lighting up. People were lined up outside, smoking cigarettes and waiting for tables, greeting each other with laughter and shouts. He was halfway past Gilt's front window when he recognized it, and stopped short.

His cell phone was in his pocket. He took it out, found Lester P. Oakes in the contacts list, and hesitated with his thumb over the screen. His lungs felt shallow, his back was tight. Basically, he was scared. That was no good reason. He took a deep breath and hit the call button.

It rang to voice mail, and he almost hung up. Then he steeled himself. “Eames. It's Arthur. I, uh. I just thought I'd call and see if you wanted to go for a drink sometime. Anyway. I'm in Chicago. If you're stateside again anytime soon, give me a call.”

He hung up, stared at the darkened screen for a moment, then put the phone away. It was one of a half-dozen numbers Eames kept, probably not even one he checked regularly. Not to mention, he wouldn't blame Eames for dumping the message as soon as he did hear it.

A group of people crowded past him on the sidewalk and he stepped aside. The walk home seemed interminable. He should probably call a cab. He started to cross the street, just as his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the screen. Lester P. Oakes.

His heart kicked into his throat, and for a moment he just stared at the screen, wondering if it was a mistake. The phone kept ringing. He hit the answer button and put it to his ear.

“Hello,” said Eames. “I got your message.”

“Hi.” Arthur's voice came out cracked; his cleared his throat and tried again. “Hi, sorry. I'm on the street.”

“Mm. Everything all right?”

“What? Yeah, everything's fine.”

“I just wondered, since you were calling me of your own accord. You've never done that before.”

“Yeah, well.” Arthur wiped his free hand down his trouser leg; he was sweating. “I was thinking about you.”

“Were you.” It was hard to tell whether Eames was just maintaining some distance, or whether he was pissed off. “Nice thoughts, I hope.”

“I'm by that place we went to. Gilt. Where you had marrow.”

“I remember. You were squeamish.”

“Marrow's disgusting.”

“Did you call me to insult my palate?”

“No.” Arthur swallowed. “No, sorry. I just called because...I was thinking about you.”

“You said that.”

“Yeah. And I was thinking, I'd like to see you.”

Eames said nothing.

“I'm sorry,” Arthur said. “I think I've been kind of a dick. I honestly didn't know how you felt until pretty late in the game, but still. I think I've been kind of a dick.”

“Well,” said Eames, “I cashed in all our remaining capital with Saito in a single mad venture, so don't feel too bad.”

“Thanks.”

“It's nice to hear your voice,” Eames said. His tone was light, but he left a pause after saying it.

“You too,” said Arthur, feeling that he was edging onto new, untested ground.

“Hm,” said Eames.

Arthur looked around. “It's getting dark. I should probably go.”

“Or you could come in,” said Eames.

Arthur froze.

“You should at least step out of the street,” Eames said. “You're going to get run over if you stand there like a pylon.”

Arthur turned and looked at the front of the restaurant. It was dim inside, and he couldn't see past the first few tables, which were full of couples eating dinner. “Eames.”

“Arthur.”

“Are you here?”

“Come in,” said Eames. “I'm drinking a fairly decent sazerac. And I've just ordered the marrow.”

Arthur hung up and stepped back onto the sidewalk. There was a little clot of people on the doormat; he maneuvered through and hauled the door open. Inside, the bar was lit up with a golden chandelier, and there was a warm, rich smell of meat and liquor and people.

He stepped inside and looked around, and almost at once he saw Eames sitting on a stool at the bar, turned around to face him, leaning back with his elbows on the bar, a glass in his hand. He was wearing a grey suit and a wrinkled grey shirt, and he looked tired. He was smiling.

Arthur put his phone in his pocket and walked over to the bar. Closer up, he could see the stubble on Eames's jaw, and the faint remnant of a bruise around his eye.

“Hello,” said Eames.

Arthur put out his hand out and rested it on Eames's shoulder. Eames looked surprised, but pleased. When Arthur leaned forward, he did too. They kissed in the middle of the bar, in the middle of the city. No one remarked, or even seemed to notice.

The third time Arthur fell for Eames was miraculous, because Arthur was fucked-up and sort of stupid, and Eames had poor impulse control. But it was the third time that was the charm.


End file.
